Ashore
by Cleonie 'Jayne Mansfield' Quin
Summary: A girl washes up on a seemingly deserted island, and piques the interest of the one who bides his time there... SilvaxOC
1. Watery Grave

Thanks for reading! Firstly, I couldn't find anything to do with Raoul/Tiago Silva/Rodriguez, so I had to put it under James Bond (my apologies). He also doesn't actually make an appearance in this fist chapter, but he will do next. Thirdly, **please** tell me what you think! If it comes across as too overblown, tell me! If it comes across as badly written, tell me! I can only make it better if I'm aware of what's wrong in the first place. And yes, I am well aware that this is rather short, but they will, hopefully, grow as they go on.

Writing this came after being inspired by MissScaryKitty's story (go and check it out, it's amazing), as it was disappointingly the only Silva one out there, and I hoped to add to the collection.

Without further ado, let the story unfold.

The water _hurt_ me.

I never knew that a simple liquid could do so much damage. Like every child growing up in a first-world country, I'd swallowed water treated with chlorine at the local swimming pool, and of course I'd suffered at its hands for the past... _god_ knows how many days, but I'd done so whilst mustering as much of my dignity as humanly possible, my absolute faith in my mental strength getting me through the bleak horror of being lost at sea.

I was so STUPID. I was angry and yet content at my imminent death, feeling I had led a life that would impress the most jaded of biographers, yet convinced I wasn't noteworthy in any way. Surely there was so much more I had to live for, even on a basic, or carnal level? I had never known the heat, nor love of a strong man I'd dreamed of, not even finding pleasure with my short, thin fingers. I wanted that, and I wanted what everyone else seemed to have- a happy life, a job, a functioning world. I would never get these things. I should have known right from the start that it was worthless, that I was a useless bag of lean fat and bones, that nothing truly mattered in the end, no matter how hard you had strived for that one thing, the desire and desperation ripping and tearing at your weary, malnourished insides, your one true fear (or your hundreds of true fears) would jump snarling and gnashing like a starved pitbull at your broken self, and take you. Where? No-one knows. But after having that pitbull nipping at my ankles for so long, I recognised its jaw closing around me.

It should have burned my insides knowing that I'd come within breathing distance of a sanctity, but I simply resigned myself, almost finding comfort in the fact that I would be dead before I reached the land I had struggled towards using the last of my energy; after all, if I had gotten there and discovered that the obviously abandoned town island was indeed, abandoned, I couldn't have done much more than lay down and die. But no, Victoria Stevens didn't lay down and die. She stood on her own two feet, only to be destroyed by Mother Nature herself. I was Victoria, and though I was to be conquered by the ocean, the heavy water pushing my lungs downwards (_which way **was** downwards?)_ I could go to my watery grave knowing that I had given so much.

Drowning is the third largest cause of unintentional death worldwide, and I was about to become a statistic.


	2. Shoot The Bitch

~Nudge~

~Nudge Nudge Nudge~

Contrary to the norm, I didn't groan when waking, forced to life by my retching body regurgitating the very depths of the sea onto the concrete floor, oh so apparent to my delicate, torn shoulder blade supporting my emaciated self. Only a fraction of my self was aware of my sudden, (_ohmygodthEPAIN_) barren existence, and I soon was carried off by a mystical being that transcended familiar sleep. Goodnight.

The taste of death lay heavy, unspoken in the air.

"Should we shoot her?"

The nervous stillness was somehow maintained, even with the uncertain execution suggested. A more timid voice spoke out from further away.

"She's too young to shoot."

"No one's too young to shoot. You shoot a puppy if you need to put it out of its misery. She's in a miserable state. I say we shoot."

Obviously uncomfortable, the men (for they were most certainly all male) shuffled further away from the lifeless figure of the girl by a few solid footsteps, none daring to interrupt the dangerously tranquil silence of the friendless, destitute, dust-encrusted former-wonderland. Kicking up stones, one warily shifted his eyes from the tiny figure on the shore, to the wasted building of the devil's empire. Anther forty seconds passed by.

"He can't see her." This voice was one that had spoken before. The others shifted, knowing that there would be consequences, whatever happened. A lighter sounded, the act of a man desperate for a break in his thoughts. If the wind weren't so obvious, he would have had a cigarette. Popping nicotine-d gum into his mouth, he chewed thoughtfully.

"He won't like this. Whatever we do. If we kill her, people'll notice a young white girl bobbing in the sea. If we don't…" His thoughts curtailed. He would disapprove even more if she were alive, he was sure of it. And pure fear of the man who currently owned his soul made him certain of the outcome of the decision they would be forced to make in a short amount of time. He made eye contact with the strongest minded of the group, and their guarded, yet understanding eyes stared back.

"Let's think about it this way; we'll be better to shoot and hide her round the back. Logic states that the island is big enough that the festering smell won't reach us, and she doesn't have to be thrown into the water. We should do this. We should do this now." Spoke a European accent hurriedly. "If he sees her, he won't be happy. Won't be happy at all. She needs to be rid." Pacing, and mainly addressing himself, he was unsurprised when he didn't get an answer.

All five men seemed reluctantly ready to accept the proposed idea, as it was admittedly the best of a terrible, inconvenient bunch, although none made any kind of movement as if to fulfil it.

She just looked so… _young._ And weary, even when dead to the world. (And she may as well have been dead. The only clues as to her alive state were her small bosoms gently rising with each arduous breath taken.)

Another minute passed.

And another.

_Ja, _the eldest man surmised, _dit is die regte ding om te doen. Ja. Net te kyk na haar swak liggaam is pynlik. Sy is nie 'n chick en gekoester moet word terug na die lewe, of bloot 'n lam om gered te word van die slagpale. Sy is 'n vrou, en hierdie vrou verdien die dood._

The man stroked the stubble of his budding beard, and resignedly turned away from the soon-to-be-deceased, his chubby fingers steadily taking four bullets out of his denim pockets and loading them into his trusted revolver.

"He's going to notice fucking _brains _all over his floor" argued the Asian, swinging the wrist with his hundred thousand dollar watch attached to it exasperatedly.

"Well then, what the fuck do you suggest, fok gesig?" snapped the man who had taken it upon himself to deliver a mercy killing for the first time, halting his preparation.

"I don't kn-"

"Look, I'll take the heat, just let me shoot this bitch-"

The crunching of gravel and other assorted pieces of rubble scattering with careful silenced and informed the ragged group of hired vagabonds and terrorists that there was another in their presence.

"What bitch?"

Silver hair blew in the wind, as the disfigured, strong expression smiled a little morbid smile, laughing at the joke only it got, dancing to the drum only it heard.

Thank you for reading the second chapter! I'm honestly overwhelmed at the amount of views and reviews for this, and therefore this came out a little quicker than usual. I hope you all liked it. (Reviews are very much appreciated, and will be replied to individually!)

Oh, the language that is spoken by the way is Afrikaans. Feel free to translate if you would like to ;)


	3. Footsteps and Avoidance

**A huge thank you to all of those who have reviewed, I appreciate it ever so much, and I never thought I'd be cranking out as many chapters in such a short amount of time as I have (I can only hope that this is a good thing, but I'll let you all be the judges of that!). Again, there's not much dialogue between Silva and your protagonist, but it'll happen. And at some point I'll even have a little go at making this an M rating ;)**

For a few hours, I just laid there, my body not needing much more sleep, but unable to face waking to the world quite yet, dozing in and out of a dreamless, composed dormancy, unworried about facing where, what and who faced me when I rose.

I awoke slowly, begrudging my pained body the fact that it was still _alive- _although only in the strictest medical sense. I most definitely did not feel as if I were anywhere near living, nor did I feel blessed at the blood coursing through my veins. My death had been as unsuccessful as the rest of my life, and I rued the day I first glanced at the tumultuous body of water that had ruined me. As the hours of waking went by, I became more and more aware of my immediate surroundings; puzzled by the environment I was in. As my eyes (apparently unused for while; according to the amount of pain forcing them open incurred) adjusted to the light space, I knew I was not on the concrete. The pillow supporting my head was far too cool, and the blanket wrapped around my numbly fragile body must have belonged to a somebody. A worry that had been creeping about in my mind for some time poked at my thoughts again, rearing its ugly head, gradually gaining unwanted momentum.

_Someone helped me; why am I not in a hospital? Where did I end up?_

I addressed these ones lastly, for the sake of my nerves:

_Who else is here?_

_Why have they not shown themselves?_

My questions were not soon answered, and as the lightness of the room darkened, I was taken under once more by the welcoming darkness of sleep.

**Footsteps.**

Slowly confident, measured footsteps came nearer, but my hopelessly out-of-practice eyes struggled to open as urgently as they would if I were back inside my own bed, and not the disfigured hospital cot of another's. As they fluttered rather pointlessly, the steps grew closer and closer, finally ending up somewhere near my hips, and I heard a chair being pulled ungracefully around, before the other in the room sat down.

Slightly disturbed and panicked, my weak physique struggled upwards pathetically, with my mouth making tiny, frantic, questioningly inhuman sounds I would have been embarrassed about if only I could have given a damn.

The masculine figure hushed me, resting one powerful hand on my front and carefully pushing downwards, whilst a joint one was placed on my tender back, guiding me backwards into the comfort of the bed as I spluttered, coughing and choking, tasting salt in all my sinuses. Pulling in all the air that I could, I drank gratefully from the cup of water that was handed me, swallowing down the liquid like a dying child. Ha.

My spluttering soon gave way to a silence, both of us ignoring the obvious questions that neither of us were in a hurry to discuss. I have never been the sort of person to demand answers, to fly off the handle as soon as things became to frightening or puzzling, and I was happy to sit in the quiet for as long as needed.

"All better?"

Glancing away coyly, I nodded quickly. It was an odd sort of voice, low with a certain sort of light-hearted grumble, and his face naturally squirmed as he spoke, even though to all intents, he was by far the most composed and confident in the room. Twenty minutes must have passed. (I had long since gotten used to the telling of time without a time-telling device.)

He was still looking at me.

I was looking everywhere but him. I couldn't. I wouldn't know what to do, or say. I wasn't good like that, I couldn't turn that on. In my peripheral vision, his pale head leaned towards me, hinting of an interest in the eye contact I refused to deliver.

"I would like,"

His eyes roaming across the room, with a beautifully warped, yet genuine open smile, he halted slightly in his words.

"…I would like...to ask you some questions, Miss Stevens."

I fainted.

Sighing, the blonde man stood up with evident frustration, dropping the ceramic cup onto the cement underneath his shoes, marching away from the sickly girl who couldn't look him in the eye.


	4. Tub

I had never imagined that I would ever find myself in a little, ancient bathtub washing a hard layer of grime and salt off myself, guarded by someone, who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be a henchman. I couldn't bring myself to care in the slightest.

I was having a hard time actually getting it off, and I wearily examined my left arm yet again. There, amidst the scum that I had managed to collect was a glimpse of pale skin, and a small patch of moles. I sighed. At least I was finally managing to get somewhere. I had welcomed the scolding water over two hours ago, and realised that there may have had to have been a few more baths to go before I could get pristine, much to my disappointment.

Glancing at the sternly sombre guardsman that had obviously been assigned to me, to make sure he wasn't looking, I stepped out of the water and on to the passably comfortable towel that had been laid out before me, drying myself as quickly as possible so that no-one could walk in on me frantically clutching an old towel to my chest. There was no need to fear, though, as not one other person entered, and the man (who I had kept my eye on throughout)'s stoicism remained firmly in place throughout. I was not vain enough to think that the men would be particularly interested in me especially, as a malnourished teenager with no body to speak of, although it became apparent the longer I watched them that these men had obviously been on the island for quite some time now without female company. I was grateful that they had kept their distance (whether forced or otherwise) and refused to talk to me. It was a two-way street, and the feeling was mutual.

I had presumed that the Silver man who had tried to speak to me when I had woken out of my deep slumber was instructing the other men to not engage me in conversation at all (in the small amount of time I had spent around him, there was an aura to be felt, a natural chilling charisma that set him apart from the others, who were all dressed in the same clothes. It reminded me of a home-made army.), but he too did not approach me. I had heard no words here aside from his the night before, the only new contact I had with anyone was the chaperone that had thrown a towel at me and lead me through endless uninhabited hallways to a full bath. My mouth had watered at the sight of it.

It was an absolute mystery, and my brain was working overtime to try to make heads or tails of whatever this place was, and whoever the dwellers were. It all seemed to be a professional environment, and something obviously somewhat prosecutable, or otherwise taboo, was occurring. I was not a dainty little wallflower, and was less concerned about how they were most probably "bad" people, and more about why I was actually there. (Although before, I had wondered about how I had managed to wash up on this place, I now had more pressing matters to ponder. I had no misconceptions that they would have no trouble in killing me if I was not of a use, and since that use was not sexual, I could only guess what it was.)

I was scared. And it took a lot to scare me recently.

There were no clean clothes when I returned to the medical cot, although I expected none. Changing into the shorts, top and bra I had been wearing for the last however long was a depressing task, and I chose to do so more than a little begrudgingly. Sitting, I opened a book casually resting on the bedside table not too far away from my arm's reach, and started reading about the Feather Men, waiting for someone to come.

It was a while before someone did, although the inevitable footsteps still shook me a little. This time, I didn't keep staring at the words on the page, blurring due to my eyes straining in the twilight, instead politely lowering the book to my lap, giving my attention to the man smiling thoughtfully to himself in front of me.

It was awkward for a few minutes, neither of us talking. I had assumed he would be relentlessly interrogating me, perhaps with some added help from painful devices, but he just stood there, his head occasionally twisting around with the thoughts he was having, a faux display of knowing modesty as his faintly bulbous eyes softly examined my bruised facial features. I racked up the courage to try the same, catching little glimpses at the face that somehow wasn't quite natural enough to belong to a completely sane man.

When his studying was complete, he turned on his heels, showing his tall, imposing physique and the river of blonde hair atop of his head, and starting walking away slightly, although not before uttering a few soft words and curling a lone finger at me, obviously in an attempt to get me to follow. And follow I did.

**Thank you all for reading! Firstly, I didn't want her to come across as a sexual object (he's not going to think she's the most physically perfect specimen in the entire world and fall head over heels with her), and I'm trying to subtly weave the story, but I'm wary of people maybe losing interest. Please let me know what you think (and even what you want to happen! ****I have my ideas, and I want to know how close to the mark you all are.**** If any of you have questions, it would be an absolute pleasure to answer them, or just discuss the story**). As always, all non-anonymous reviews will be replied to. Although these chapters may seem fairly meandering, I'm sowing seeds of things to come, so bear that in mind.

**Strap in, everyone.**


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